Puzzles
by My Sharpie Is Green
Summary: “I’m in love with you.”  He means it when he says it.  He’s loved her since she first showed him to his desk all those years ago, and he loves her more now...  [POST KISS CASINO NIGHT][JAM]


I've never written for The Office before, but I've wanted to write a Jam fic for a long, long time. I know that everybody and their sister's done their version of the aftermath of Casino Night, and that I'm a little late in doing it, but here it is. Inspired by and written to "Nine Crimes" by Damien Rice. Listen to it while reading his, if you can. Oh, yeah, and I don't own The Office.

**Puzzles**

"I'm in love with you."

He means it when he says it. He's loved her since she first showed him to his desk all those years ago, and he loves her more now, as they're standing outside in the cold, awkwardly spaced and more distant than usual. Her eyes are focused on him, watching and waiting for something he knows he can't give. It's as though she's expecting him to smile and laugh and tell her that she fell for it, but he can't say that. Because he's in love with her, and he needs her to know.

She tells him that she can't, and she leaves, and he understands it. Because she's engaged to Roy, even though she's too good for him. She won't leave him, because he really does believe she loves him, but he doesn't believe that she loves him enough. Not anymore. And she certainly won't leave Roy for him. She's not that girl.

But somehow this is different. He's transferring in a couple of days, so he follows her into the office and he puts his hands on the small of her back and he kisses her, and he feels her soft hands on his cheeks. He can smell her vanilla perfume and taste a mixture of beer and champagne and breath mints on her lips. He wants to stay there with her forever, but he breaks away gently and she keeps her eyes closed for a while after they part. He keeps his arms around her, and when she finally looks up at him, her eyes are shinier than usual.

"I'm sorry – " he starts, but she shakes her head. She mutters something inaudible. "What?"

"Can you give me a ride home?" She looks up nervously at him, as if she doesn't trust herself, and he nods, putting his hands in his pockets to keep himself from reaching for her hand. They take the elevator and as they ride down, all he can think of his hitting the emergency stop, of kissing her and talking with her and holding her and simply looking at her, simply being next to her for just a bit longer. But he doesn't, and the doors open and he leads her to his car.

They drive in silence, and he wishes he'd do the familiar things that made him so comfortable around her. She's still wearing the uncomfortable shoes from the night and the twinkle in her eyes is gone, replaced by creases in her brow.

"Pam, I… I shouldn't have kissed you."

"Pull over." Her voice is trepid and he pulls off of the road, glancing at her for a hint or an explanation. She turns her torso towards him and her eyes search his before she leans forward to kiss him. She pulls away and unbuckles herself, climbing over the console into the backseat. He follows her, putting a hand on her side.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Yeah."

She loosens his tie, and he runs his free hand through her hair, taking out the elastic holding it back. It falls around her face, hiding her eyes, and he tucks it behind her ears as she removes the tie and starts to work on the buttons of his shirt. He can feel himself blush as he remembers the last time he parked – he was seventeen – and he thinks of how little has changed since then. He's still the class clown lacking direction and purpose, except that she's his direction and his purpose and he's caressing her skin now. He unzips the back of her dress and he pulls it over her head and she takes off his shirt. He pulls her into him, feeling the warmth of her body and the smooth satin of her bra and the soft curve of her breasts against his chest. She's kissing him more desperately now, and the nervous gentility has transformed into something much more hurried and guilt-ridden. A pair of headlights passes them on the road, illuminating the goose bumps on her skin. And suddenly he feels how wrong this is. She reaches for his belt and he puts his hand over hers.

It's going to kill him to say it, he can feel it already, but he knows it will kill her if he doesn't. He bites his lip.

"What's wrong?"

"We can't." Her eyes interrogate him and he closes his eyes, wishing that it didn't have to be like this. "You don't want to do this. You aren't this girl." She looks at him a moment longer before the tears come. Shaking, she wraps her arms around his neck, resting her forehead against his collarbone. "It's okay," he tells her, and he rubs her back gently as she cries. "Get dressed. I'll take you home."

She stays in the backseat as he drives her to her apartment, and when she gets in the door she doesn't even bother to change out of her dress before lying on the couch and crying herself to sleep. Jim watches her walk away and drives back to the office, listening to the fading sounds of Casino Night as he cleans out his desk. He'd meant to encase Dwight's bobble head in Jell-O before he left, but he leaves it lying there, untouched. Resting his box of personal effects on his empty desk, he looks around the dark office one last time and thinks of Michaela and his coworkers. He won't miss them; he won't miss _this_. Stamford is direction and purpose and the possibility of change. Which seems good – seems great – until his eyes fall on the empty receptionist's desk. He thinks of Dundies and Count Choculitis and how she fit against him like a puzzle piece, and the perfect way her hands fit into his, and he realizes that he didn't say goodbye. And that maybe it's for the best.

He doesn't look over again as he walks out the door.


End file.
